“I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
“In the country?” Lady Beatrice declared. “You can’t possibly mean to get married in some poky little church in the country when you can marry in St. George’s, Hanover Square. It’s the place to be wed.”
Abby smiled. “The chapel at Davenham Hall is perfect. We don’t want a big wedding, and it seems so right to be getting married there, beginning our new life in the place where we’ll live it.” Abby had fallen in love with Davenham Hall at first sight. Their carriage had crested the hill and they’d stopped to look down at the ancient stone house nestled in a green valley. The house was surrounded by a tangled garden and half hidden by trees, which at this time of year were starting to show signs of scarlet and gold and copper and green.
Abby had explored the rambling old house eagerly. It was dusty, but perfect, almost like something out of a fairy tale, with turrets and gothic windows and a fireplace in the hall large enough to roast an ox. And the tiny sixteenth-century chapel was exquisite—perfect for the wedding of two people who didn’t have a large family. Yet.
Lady Beatrice turned to Max. “Max, this is your doing!”
He shook his head. “It’s not, you know. If I had my way I’d marry her out of hand with a special license.”
His aunt made a disgusted noise. “You’d let the gel get married in rags, I suppose. Men!”
Max grinned and slipped his arm around Abby’s waist. “I’d marry her in nothing at all.”
Abby leaned her head on his shoulder. The waiting was hard on both of them. She longed to have the freedom to lie with him in his big bed, making love the way they had that glorious wet afternoon in Bath, but it wasn’t possible. Not here, where it seemed there were curious sisters, beady-eyed aunts and butlers underfoot at every turn.
Abby didn’t really mind what she wore to her wedding, but Daisy had set her heart on making her a special dress and Abby wasn’t going to disappoint her, especially since Max had given them the freedom of his silk warehouse. It would be the first dress Daisy had ever sewed using all new fabric.
“This is Abby’s notion,” Max said.
“It’s what I want, truly,” Abby assured the old lady. “It’s beautiful, just wait until you get there. The autumn colors are just starting and by the wedding, they’ll be stunning. And when we’ve finished with the house, it will look beautiful too. It just needs a good cleaning and some rearrangement.”
“Abby and I are going to travel ahead to Davenham Hall,” Max told his aunt. They’d planned it the night before. “We’ll get the house and chapel ready, and the wedding preparations under way.”
“We’d like to take Featherby and William with us,” Abby said quickly, before Lady Beatrice had a chance to object. “And a maid.”
“For a chaperone,” Max said.
Lady Beatrice raised her brows. “Not a sister?”
Abby shook her head, hoping her blush wasn’t too visible. “No, Jane and Damaris want to stay here and help Daisy.” That was true enough, but it was also true that she didn’t want her sisters underfoot, observing Abby behaving scandalously with her betrothed. She had every intention of repeating her Bath experience at Davenham Hall.
“Taking my butler too, I see.” Lady Beatrice sniffed. “Bare-faced piracy.”
“It’s just that he’s so good at organizing people,” Abby coaxed. “He’ll return after the wedding, I promise. I can’t imagine Featherby taking to country life permanently, can you?”
“Well, if you must, you must—oh, get along with you, Miss Burglar,” she pretended to grumble as Abby hugged her and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I suppose when love is bursting out of you, you have to kiss someone.”
“It is,” Abby agreed softly, and glanced at Max. “And I do.”
Abby and Max’s wedding day dawned mild and sunny. Jane and Daisy and Damaris helped Abby to get ready. Her wedding dress was in heavy cream silk, and so simply and beautifully cut it took Abby’s breath away when she saw it. Gathered from a square neckline, it was caught under the bust by a wide satin bow, the only piece of decoration in the whole dress unless you counted the tiny puffed sleeves. When she walked, the sumptuous fabric flowed around her like water.
“Oh, Daisy, it’s beautiful. I feel like a princess.”
Daisy grinned and nodded. “You know, Abby, I was that nervous when I went to cut the material—real silk it is, and never been touched—me hands were shaking. Still, it’s turned out all right, ain’t it?”
“It’s utterly beautiful and you know it,” Abby told her. “I should have chosen St. George’s, Hanover Square after all, so the ton could see this dress. Once they see it, they’ll be lining up for you to make them dresses, wait and see.”
Daisy grinned. “Don’t you worry about me, Abby. You just go off and get yourself married to that man of yours. Everything ready?”
Abby checked. She wore the beautiful square-cut emerald ring that Max had given her, that Lady Beatrice had inherited from her own mother. She touched the pearl and diamond necklace she wore around her neck, a gift from Max. Tucked beneath her satin waistband was a small lace handkerchief given to her by Lady Beddington, “Because one always cries at weddings, even one’s own.” A saucy pair of blue satin garters held up her silk stockings, a gift from Featherby and William, and on the table beside her sat the posy she would carry, fashioned by Damaris’s clever fingers.
All were tokens from the people who loved her. Abby knew she was blessed. It was foolish to wish for some small item from her mother or father to wear or carry on this most important day, but they’d paid for Mama’s funeral with her wedding ring and there was nothing else.
“Come on, Abby, you don’t want to be late,” Jane said.
Abby looked up at her sister and smiled. Of course, how could she forget? Here was her most precious gift from Mama and Papa—her sister Jane, smiling and beautiful, the very image of Mama.
She smoothed on her long white gloves. “I’m ready.”
Every inch of the church had been scrubbed and polished, from the ancient oak pews glowing with beeswax, to the decorative brasses and the glittering stained glass windows. Since it had been an unseasonably cold summer, and there were only a few flowers left, the church had been decorated with sprays of autumn leaves, huge silver vases filled to overflowing with crimson and gold and copper and rust, glowing in the candlelight and filling the small stone church with light and warmth and the clean, earthy fragrance of the forest.
Every pew was filled, for not only had all their friends from London traveled down for the wedding, but most of the local villagers and Davenham tenants had turned out too. Abby recognized most of the faces that turned to smile at her as she entered the church, her sisters behind her. These people had all helped with the massive job of readying Davenham Hall for the event. Apart from Featherby and William, Max had insisted on employing only local labor. It had been a bad season for crops and people needed the income, he’d explained.
Now they’d all come, shyly filling up the back rows, dressed in their Sunday best, with scrubbed faces and polished shoes and slicked-back hair, full of smiles and nods and even a few tears as Abby walked slowly down the aisle.
Abby blinked back some tears of her own. This was her future, her people. Her home.
More and more people turned to smile at her, members of the literary society, Lady Beddington and her friends, Featherby and William—Featherby sobbing already.
And in the front pew, leaning on her cane, a most magnificent old lady who’d taken in a burglar and claimed her as her niece. She nodded at Abby, gave a smile that wobbled, and blew loudly into a handkerchief.
Her family.
And there by the altar, standing tall and somber and magnificent was her love, his gray eyes burning in the dark little church as he waited for her, for plain Abby Chantry, who in the light of his gaze felt utterly beautiful. Her beloved Viking.
He held out his hand to her. Her eyes misted. She was home.